Yorkshire Lyrics Part 31

Then its O! for a wife, sich a wife as aw know!

Who's thowts an desires are pure as the snow, Who nivver thinks virtue a reason for praise, An who shudders when tell'd ov this world's wicked ways.

Shoo isn't a gossip, shoo keeps to her hooam, Shoo's a welcome for friends if they happen to come; Shoo's tidy an cleean, let yo call when yo may, Shoo's nivver upset or put aght ov her way.

At morn when her husband sets off to his wark, Shoo starts him off whistlin, as gay as a lark; An at neet if he's weary he hurries straight back, An if worried forgets all his cares in a crack.

If onny naybor is sick or distressed, Shoe sends what shoo can an allus her best; An if onny young fowk chonce to fall i' disgrace, They fly straight to her and they tell her ther case.

Shoo harkens--an then in a motherly tone Sympathises as tho they were bairns ov her own; Shoo shows 'em ther faults, an points aght th' best way, To return to th' reight rooad, if they've wandered astray.

Soa kindly shoo tries to set tangled things straight, Yo'd ommost goa wrang to let her set yo reight.

Shoo helps and consoles the poor, weary an worn,-- Shoo's an angel baght wings if one ivver wor born.

Shoo can join a mild frolic if fun's to be had, For her princ.i.p.al joy is to see others glad; Shoo's a jewel, an th' chap who can call her his own, Has noa 'cashion to hunt for th' philosopher's stooan.

If failins shoo has, they're unknown unto me,-- Shoo's as near to perfection as mortal can be;-- To know shoo's net mine, does sometimes mak me sad;-- If shoo's thine, then tha owt to be thankful, owd lad.

Contrasts.

If yo've a fancy for a spree, Goa up to Lundun, same as me, Yo'll find ther's lots o' things to see, To pleeas yo weel.

If seem isn't quite enuff, Yo needn't tew an waste yor puff, To find some awkard sooarts o' stuff At yo can feel.

Yo'll n.o.bbut need to set yor shoe On some poleeceman's tender toa,-- A varry simple thing to do,-- An wi a crack Enuff to mak a deead man jump, Daan comes his staff, an leeaves a lump, An then he'll fling yo wi a b.u.mp, Flat o' yor back.

If signs o' riches suit yo best, Yer een can easily be blest; Or if yo seek for fowk distrest, They're easy fun, Wi faces ommost worn to nowt, An clooas at arn't worth a thowt, Yet show ha long wi want they've fowt, Till fairly done.

Like a big ball it rolls along, A nivver ending, changing throng, Mixt up together, waik an strong,-- An gooid an bad.

Virtues an vices side bi side,-- Poverty slinkin after pride,-- Wealth's waste, an want at's hard to bide, Some gay, some sad.

It ommost maks one have a daat, (To see some strut, some crawl abaat, One in a robe, one in a claat,) If all's just square.

It may be better soa to be, But to a simpleton like me, It's hard to mak sich things agree; It isn't fair.

To Mally.

Its long sin th' parson made us one, An yet it seems to me, As we've gooan thrustin, toilin on, Time's made noa change i' thee.

Tha grummeld o' thi weddin day,-- Tha's nivver stopt it yet; An aw expect tha'll growl away Th' last bit o' breeath tha'll get.

Growl on, old la.s.s, an ease thi mind!

It nivver troubles me; Aw've proved 'at tha'rt booath true an kind,-- Ther's lots 'at's war nor thee.

An if tha's but a hooamly face, Framed in a white starched cap, Ther's nooan wod suit as weel i'th' place,-- Ther's nooan aw'd like to swap.

Soa aw'll contented jog along,-- It's th' wisest thing to do; Aw've seldom need to use im tongue, Tha tawks enuff for two.

Tha cooks mi vittals, maks mi bed, An finds me clooas to don; An if to-day aw worn't wed, Aw'd say to thee,--"Come on."

Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion.

Sal Sanguine wor a bonny la.s.s, Ov that yo may be sewer; Shoo had her trubbles tho', alas!

An th' biggest wor her yure.

Noa la.s.s shoo knew as mich could spooart, But oft shoo'd heeard it sed, They thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart, It wor soa varry red.

Young fowk we know are seldom wise,-- Experience taiches wit;-- Some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyes Is net as black as jet.

Wol others seem quite in a stew, An can't tell whear to bide, 'Coss they've black een asteead o' blue,-- An twenty things beside.

Aw'm foorced to own Sal Sanguine's nop, It had a ruddy cast; An once shoo heeard a silly fop, Say as he hurried past-- "There goes the girl I'd like to wed,-- 'Twould grant my heart's desire; In spring pull carrots from her head,-- In winter 'twould save fire."

Her cheeks wi' pa.s.sion fairly burned,-- Shoo made a fearful vow, To have to some fresh color turned That yure upon her brow.

Shoo knew a chap 'at kept a shop, An dyed all sooarts o' things; An off shoo went withaat a stop, As if shoo'd flown wi' wings.

Shoo fan him in, an tell'd her tale, An tears stood in her ee; "Why, Sal," he sed, "few chap's wod fail If axt, to dye for thee.

What color could ta like it done?

Aw'll pleeas thi if aw can; We'st ha some bother aw'll be bun, But aw think aw know a plan."

"Why mak it black, lad, if tha can; Black's sewer to suit me best; Aw dooant care if its black an tan,-- Mi life's been sich a pest.

For tho' aw say 'at should'nt say't, Ther's lots noa better bred, Curl up ther nooas an cut me straight, Becoss mi yure's soa red."

"Come on ageean to-morn at neet, Aw'll have all ready, la.s.s; An if aw connot do it reight Aw'll ax thi for noa bra.s.s."

Soa Sally skuttered hooam agean, An into bed shoo popt, Her fowk wor capt what it could meean, For thear th' next day shoo stopt,

When th' evenin coom shoo up an dress'd, An off shoo went to th' place; Shoo seem'd like some poor soul possess'd, Or one i' dire disgrace.

"Come here," sed th' chap, "all's ready nah, It's stewin here i'th' pan; Aw'll dip thi heead,--hold,--steady nah!

Just bide it if tha can."

Poor Sally skriked wi' all her might, But as all th' doors wor shut, He n.o.bbut sed, "nah la.s.s, keep quiet, It weant do baght its wut.

To leearn mi trade, for twenty year, Throo morn to neet aw've toiled, An know at nawther hanks nor heeads, Are weel dyed unless boiled.

But as tha'rt varry tender, An aw've takken th' job i' hand, Aw'll try it rayther cooiler,-- But then, th' color might'nt stand."

An for a while he swilled an slopt, Wol shoo wor oinmost smoor'd; An when he wrung it aght an stopt, He varry near wor floored.

For wol thrang workin wi' her yure, He'd been soa taen wi' th' case, He'd nivver gein a thowt befooar, Abaat her neck an face.

But nah he saw his sad mistak, Yet net a word he sed; Her skin wor all a deep blue black, Her yure, a dark braan red.

He gate her hooam sooin as he could, Shoo slyly slipt up stairs; An chuckled to think ha shoo should Tak all th' fowk unawares.

Shoo slept that neet just like a top, Next morn shoo rose content, Shoo rubb'd some tutty on her nop, An then daan stairs shoo went.

All th' childer screamed as if they'd fits,-- Th' old fowk they stared like mad;-- "Nay, Sally! has ta lost thi wits?

Or has ta seen th' Old Lad?"

Shoo smil'd an sed, "Well, what's to do?"

"Gooid gracious! whear's ta been?